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religious poem

et ils marchaient toujours dessus
elle boite avec stopper le pas douloureux
pourquoi
ceux-ci soient
elle doit retourner, elle a dit
laissez-nous pitié ceux outre dont soyez meilleur que nous sont
un mot de vol d'ici et lĂ 
tristement parlant
mon âme disparaît plaquée dans des choses magnifiques
mon âme est un champ labouré foncé
il aurait mĂŞme sa plaisanterie
souffleur de verre de temps
leurs beaux cheveux
robuste, humble-abeille de somnoler

 



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